


The Last Enemy

by amonitrate



Series: Occam's Razor [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonitrate/pseuds/amonitrate
Summary: A man walks into a bar...Joe and the aftermath of the Horsemen.





	The Last Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> This is for[](http://unovis-lj.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://unovis-lj.livejournal.com/) **unovis_lj** , who remembered it from way back when we were both in a HL writer's group.
> 
> Originally written between 2001-2005.

_The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. [1 Corinthians 15:26]_  
  
It was a night that could have swung in two directions. Bitterly cold, with low clouds spitting out a precise mixture of rain and ice designed to soak and chill no matter what precautions in the way of outerwear you chose. A night even the natives cursed. The kind of night that either drove all of Joe Dawson’s regular clientele away or pulled in larger than usual crowds, desperate to find a warm refuge.  
  
At first it looked as if the club would remain empty. Joe hadn’t lined up an act for the night, so not even the die-hard blues lovers had braved the weather. Joe’s two customers were men whose residences were less homey than the club. He didn’t begrudge them their cheap and slowly nursed beer. He was grateful for the company, even if the men were less than chatty and on the slow slide towards drunken stupor. Saved him from acknowledging the empty space his friends usually occupied, and why the space was empty.  
  
The wind shuddered against the outside door and rattled the windows. Joe shivered a little and decided he had had enough of listening to the weather. It wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He shuffled through the debris under the bar and came up empty handed. He’d forgotten his CD case again. Damn. Joe moved further down the bar and dug through a pile of old newspapers until he found the wine crate that held the lost-and-found. His grip slipped and the crate crashed to the bar with a crack, but his customers didn’t look up.  
  
He sighed a little at the clutter in the crate, mentally adding a trip to the Salvation Army to his to-do list for the week. Balancing expertly on one crutch he fished through the orphaned gloves and abandoned sunglasses, looking for anything decent to play on the stereo. Joe tossed aside a few demo tapes one of Seacouver’s aspiring punk bands had pressed into his hands. It just wasn’t that kind of night. There was a Muddy Waters disc Joe himself owned and had memorized. He set it aside in case his search was fruitless. Near the bottom of the crate Joe found a stack of CDs wrapped in a paper lunch sack. A sticky note scrawled over with his own writing was plastered to the front. He sighed again, his eyes closing. The note read “give back to Adam.” Shit.  
  
The night had started on such an even keel. Joe didn’t want to think about Adam. Mac had appeared unannounced last night, alone. All he would say was that Kronos was dead and Methos had survived. Joe had seen past his bitter snarl to a roiling, confused hurt. Mac never reacted well to betrayal. When the immortal stalked off again without elaboration, Joe let him go. He had other sources beside MacLeod. Even so the details of whatever had gone down in Bordeaux were sketchy. None of the Watchers had dared to get close to the Horsemen, and all attempts at surveillance – electronic or otherwise – had been thwarted. Methos had made certain of that.  
  
Joe knew about the bomb in the fountain, knew that Methos had tipped off Mac. MacLeod’s last call to Joe had filled him in that much. He still didn’t know what exactly had happened after that. How MacLeod and the oldest Immortal stood with each other now. If Mac’s current attitude was any sign, they hadn’t parted well. From the tangled reports he’d received from the Paris office Joe had stitched together that Cassandra had made it out of the Horsemen’s lair intact. There had been a massive Quickening, beyond anything the Watchers present had seen before. If Mac hadn’t told him otherwise he would have assumed Methos had finally lost his millennia long battle for survival. The clean-up team found Kronos’ corpse inside the base, but there was no sign of Silas. The Watchers didn’t appear to know about Methos, and Joe hadn’t asked. If the oldest immortal’s identity remained a mystery, Joe had no desire to spoil it for him, Horsemen or no.  
  
Joe had made discreet inquiries about Adam, though. He didn’t discover much. Adam Pierson, researcher for the Methos Chronicles, had put in for an indefinite leave of absence due to a death in the family. A truth among the obfuscation. How like Adam. Joe shook his head - it wasn’t Adam, not really. Sometimes Joe let himself forget that Adam was a mask. An elaborate and witty mask, to be sure; but Adam Pierson didn’t exist. Confusing the mask for the wearer was a mistake. Downright dangerous, as they had all so suddenly discovered.  
  
He’d told himself he wasn’t going to think about Adam, and here he was. Joe upended the paper bag and let the hard CD cases clatter to the wood bar. He didn’t know what he expected a man with 50 centuries under his belt to listen to, but Methos’ taste in music was so... odd. Chinese opera. John Coltrane. Laurie Anderson. Iranian folk tunes. Tom Waits. Somebody named “DJ Shadow.” Joe settled on Loreena McKennitt. Ethereal, moody and atmospheric. Perfect for the evening he was having. Joe poured himself a scotch (Glenfiddich, not the cheap stuff) and turned to check on his limited customer base.  
  
“What’s this you’re playin’?” Tim Rodgers asked, glancing up vaguely from above his pint.  
  
Joe topped off the man’s beer and gave him a small smile. “It’s a fr- it belongs to somebody I knew.”  
  
“Kinda nice,” Rodgers murmured.  
  
“Yeah,” Joe said, “It is.”  
  
Joe settled onto a stool, letting the music leak into him, letting the tensions of the last few weeks pool somewhere around where his feet should be. The music was ageless and fathomlessly sad. What was he supposed to think? His friend Adam was most likely gone for good. And Methos, even if he did show up, had been made a stranger.  
  
Mac’s feelings were clear, but then Mac had a hard time seeing greys. Joe couldn’t deny that the grey area Methos swam through might be too murky to follow. How much of Adam was in Methos, and how much was Death? Maybe Mac was right. Maybe Adam Pierson was dead.  
  
“This is more MacLeod’s style. The Keltoi were always good for an angsty ballad. Made up for their atrocious attire.”  
  
The voice at the end of the bar startled Joe out of his dark musing. He threw a hand out and just stopped himself from toppling to the floor.  
  
“Speak of the devil,” he managed.  
  
The newcomer nodded, thin face neutral in the club’s evening half-light.  
  
“Am I?”  
  
Joe shook his head and stood with more care than was probably necessary.  
  
“It’s a figure of speech,” he broke off, not sure how to address the man before him.  
  
“Adam,” Methos supplied.  
  
He hadn’t moved closer. Hands buried deep in his black overcoat, he stood with the wide-legged stance Joe recognized from watching him spar with MacLeod. His dark hair was shorter than Joe remembered. It framed his face in severe spikes and had been flattened to his skull with rain. He was an expressionist woodcut, stark black against white. All jagged angles and brittle lines.  
  
“Are you?” Joe found himself genuinely curious.  
  
“For now,” the other man answered.  
  
“I was keeping these for you.” Joe gestured to the pile of CDs.  
  
“But you didn’t think I’d be back.”  
  
“Are you back?”  
  
Adam flashed Joe something that might have resembled a grin on another face. It wasn’t an answer.  
  
“So Adam Pierson met Death,” Joe snapped, suddenly irrationally annoyed with the man before him, MacLeod, Cassandra... the whole lot of them. Immortals.  
  
A short bark of laughter escaped the spectre at the end of the bar.  
  
“No. They’ve yet to be introduced. I don’t think they’d get along.”  
  
“And me?” Joe countered, halving the distance between them.  
  
The man who had taken over his friend’s form sprung forward, bare inches from Joe in less than a blink. Joe flinched, hand tightening on the edge of the bar. Adam’s angled face was taut and white. His eyes vanished in the shadows, leaving gaping black sockets.  
  
“Oh, you’d remember, Joe,” the demon hissed, “You’d remember meeting Death.”  
  
Joe stumbled backwards as if pushed only to realize the other man hadn’t touched him. His head snapped up to find Adam Pierson staring back at him, as if Death had been a hallucination.  
  
“Who the hell *are* you?” Joe gasped.  
  
The other man sighed, looking away with a tense shrug. His voice when he answered carried an unexpected edge of weariness.  
  
“Whoever I need to be.”  
  
He shrunk into his long coat, no more threatening than a student after a few too many all-nighters. Adam Pierson. No traces of anyone else remained.  
  
Joe glanced around the club. Was he dreaming? Tim Rodgers raised his head and gave a bleary nod before sinking back into his beer. Joe stepped back from the bar, the massive hunk of wood a comfortable barrier between himself and Adam. Adam’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t make a move to follow.  
  
“Look,” Joe said, breaking the awkward silence, “Hang up your coat and grab a stool. I’ll get you something hot to drink. You look like an icicle.”  
  
The jarring death’s head grin was back, perched unsteadily atop Adam Pierson’s easy slouch.  
  
“I’ll keep the coat, if you don’t mind,” he said as he sat down a few feet down the bar from Joe, “But I’ll take you up on that drink.”  
  
Ookay. Paranoid bastard. Some things *hadn’t* changed, then. Good to know.  
  
Joe poured him a mug of black coffee and dumped in a shot of the good scotch. Adam’s hands emerged from the dark coat to wrap around the steaming mug Joe shoved his way. The mug shook a little every time Adam took a sip. What the hell?  
  
He must have caught Joe watching. The immortal set the mug down and held his hands out over the bar, palms down, and gazed back at Joe with an expression that both challenged and warned against questions. His long fingers trembled and spasmed, like muscles pushed beyond endurance. Before Joe had a chance to react the hands were back around the mug.  
  
“What...” Joe swallowed. “What does that mean?”  
  
Adam’s eyes met his and something alien flickered there and was gone, replaced with tired patience.  
  
“It means I’m too old for this shit.”  
  
Joe realized Methos had answered. Adam snapped back into place before Joe could form another question.  
  
“You,” Joe said finally, “Are schitzo.”  
  
“No,” Adam replied, too even, “I’m immortal.”  
  
Silence settled back over them, an easier silence than earlier. The music had ended. Joe used it as an excuse to retreat from Adam. He grabbed a CD blindly from the pile and slapped it into the machine. Rodgers’ beer needed refilling. As he moved to the tap a world-weary voice echoed through the club. Tom Waits, backed by an incongruous jazz trio. His voice was gravelly and somehow soothing. The voice of a survivor.  
  
“That,” the man at the other end of the bar murmured, “Is more my style.”  
  
Joe decided he’d had enough of the mystery man routine. If Adam or his alter-ego wanted to talk he’d have to make the first move. Joe wiped down the already sparkling wood of the bar, ignoring his third customer. Adam seemed to have forgotten Joe was there. He’d hunched down into his coat in an uncomfortable echo of his usual casual slouch. Joe was pretty sure the immortal had nodded off over his coffee.  
  
Spreading the Times out in front of him on the bar, Joe settled across from Rodgers and his buddy. His eyes flickered to Adam every so often. The other man never moved. A middle-aged couple drifted through the door and shook off the rain, claiming one of the tables near the bar. Joe exchanged complaints about the rain, his attention elsewhere, and served them Irish coffee. The couple was followed by two gangs of college kids, faces rosy and bright with the cold. The club was suddenly both cozy and unreal. The newcomers chatted in low voices feet away from the youthful figure of the world’s oldest man. Joe had just made up his mind to refill Adam’s mug when the immortal’s head jerked up, eyes wide in the white face. Adam stiffened, his head swiveling toward the entrance even as one hand shot into the depths of his overcoat toward the hidden blade.  
  
“What-“ Joe managed, but Adam’s sword hand had already returned to his mug. The set of his shoulders relaxed into something less panicked and more... tense.  
  
“It’s just MacLeod,” Adam bit off, jaw clenched.  
  
“How do you-“  
  
MacLeod pushed through the door and halted, staring at them. Joe saw surprise there before Mac’s face hardened.  
  
“I didn’t think you guys could tell,” Joe managed, looking from Mac to Adam in disbelief.  
  
Adam just shook his head, ignoring the other immortal.  
  
“We can’t,” he said. His eyes had a flat, opaque cast that Joe didn’t like.  
  
“But-“  
  
“Drop it,” Adam ordered in a tone of command Joe had never heard from him.  
  
“What are you doing here?” MacLeod growled from the doorway, hands on his hips.  
  
Adam answered without inflection, without turning away from the bar to face him.  
  
“What does it look like?”  
  
“I tried to find you. I thought you’d left,” MacLeod accused Adam’s back. Joe felt as if he didn’t exist. A palpable tension was building between the two immortals, like static before a storm.  
  
Adam rolled his eyes.  
  
“I did. I’m not in France, now, am I?”  
  
“You know what I meant,” Mac shot back. He strode forward, pushing into Adam’s personal space, trying to force a confrontation.  
  
“No, I really don’t.” Adam pulled back and shifted to meet MacLeod’s burning gaze with his own cold one. “Why don’t you tell me what you mean?”  
  
Joe’s hand tightened on his cane. Would he have time to get between them before they went at each other? Would that even matter, if they did?  
  
MacLeod searched Adam’s face, then backed off a pace, expression shutting down.  
  
“Leave my friends alone.”  
  
Adam glanced up at Joe, one corner of his mouth twisted up in a sick half-grin.  
  
“Am I bothering you?” The mocking innocence in his voice hurt Joe’s teeth. They all knew it was a lie.  
  
“Mac, I can fight my own battles,” Joe said with more calm than he felt.  
  
“I know, Joe,” Mac answered with a deadly softness, “It’s *Adam* who likes others to clean up after him.”  
  
At this Adam stood, hands back in his pockets. He pulled out a few crumpled bills and dropped them on the bar, then buttoned his coat around his throat.  
  
“Thanks for the coffee, Joe. You can keep the CDs.”  
  
“Where are you going?” MacLeod demanded, blocking Adam’s escape with his body.  
  
The bar went suddenly quiet, in that particular way that meant everyone knew a brawl was coming.  
  
“Mock the devil and he shall flee from thee,” Adam answered, “So off I go.”  
  
Silence deepened, laying like gauze over the club. Joe clenched his cane until his hand ached. The bastards were going to challenge each other right here in front of all the mortals.  
  
“Fine,” MacLeod spat, “It’s what you do best.”  
  
“Oh no, MacLeod,” Methos’ voice was rough with fatigue. “I survive. That is what I do best.”  
  
He pushed past MacLeod, taking visible care no to touch the other immortal. The wet night swallowed him whole.

* * *


End file.
